


Hospital

by HarmoniaChimera



Series: River of Mists [1]
Category: Medieval Fantasy - Fandom, Original Work, River of Mists
Genre: Abuse, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Fictional Religion & Theology, First Time, Heresy, High Fantasy, Implied/Referenced Torture, Loss of Virginity, Punishment, Religious Conflict, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:20:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22375585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarmoniaChimera/pseuds/HarmoniaChimera
Summary: “Do the gods truly require one to flail one’s arms around in a particular manner before the answer one’s prayers?" Lyeiess asked. "Do you pray dancing or flying?” His voice was underlined by a thin layer of devious sarcasm, but Irri felt it was directed at Rescha rather than her.“I pray in silence, my lord,” she replied softly. “Vena knows our minds, sees into our thoughts.”“See, dear Rescha?” Lyeiess stood straight again, his voice dripping venom. “One does not need one’s hands free to commune with the gods. One does, however, need them free to commune withme. Therefore, untie the girl.”
Relationships: Lyeiess/Irri, Lyeiess/Raila
Series: River of Mists [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1610662
Kudos: 4





	Hospital

**Author's Note:**

> Character descriptions for those who might need them, though you are more than welcome to skip these:  
> \- **Lyeiess:** the ruling prince of a small town called Iao, rich as hell and cares very little about anybody--or at least that's how they paint him. Has a small, maybe-a-bit-sick tendency to pull female prisoners out of dungeons and quarries to make them into his concubines, after which they disappear without a trace. Recently, Iao has been plagued by a horrible drought despite sitting in a river delta, and to top it off, something decided to haunt one of its most important trade routes, throwing the town to the brink of ruin.  
> \- **Irri:** the unofficial missionary of Venism come to Iao to spread her faith but did not account on Iao's "official" religion, Arateism, being very territorial. She was captured as a heretic, and... well.  
> \- **Lazarus:** more commonly known as the Master of Souls, the main chaplain of Arateism and the leader of the Arateite, the common name for his religious congregation. Resides in the Temple of Providence and basically plays on everyone's nerves, Lyeiess's most of all. Despite appearances and their frequent disagreements, Lazarus loves Lyeiess with heated passion and would like to have a small herd of fat children with him.  
> \- **Rescha:** two-faced, double-agent, eunuched servant of the court who instead prefers to pledge his worthless body to the Master of Souls. Nearly dies in the story but unfortunately only nearly; spends the rest of his screen time being a little bitch.  
> \- **Raila:** Lyeiess's resident court medic, mostly human, half orc. Doesn't let anybody order her around and instead tells everyone off as much as she likes. She and Lyeiess love each other with thunderous, hateful passion, and if there's anything in abundance between them, it's only blood and sexual tension.  
> \- **Nad & Alia:** Raila's errand boy and his little sister who assists Raila with her patients and surgeries. Raila pulled them out of the street and saved their lives, and now couldn't care less what anybody thinks about keeping children close to dead bodies, festering wounds, and other fun hospital things.

“Wash yourself and change. Here’s a fresh tunic,” said the man in the prince’s livery, throwing a piece of cloth on a stool. “You have ten minutes. You! Keep an eye on her.”

A silent guard slipped into the chamber and stood by the door, squeezing his halberd until his knuckles were white. He obviously tried not to look at her, but he wasn’t very successful in that endeavour. She sighed and looked at the tunic. Unsurprisingly, it was way too small for her. Also unsurprisingly, water in the basin that stood in the corner was ice-cold. She undressed slowly, drawing just a smidge of satisfaction from the fact the poor guard looked anywhere but at her, like he hadn’t seen a naked woman in quite some time at least.

For a moment she considered performing the Ritual, but if the prince really was anything like what they made him out to be, she wouldn’t be able to transfer enough energy anyway, and more importantly, she wouldn’t want him to get too attached to her. No, she’d better forget about the Ritual.

She could feel the guard’s burning gaze on her when she was rubbing herself dry with a piece of rough linen. She pulled the small tunic on and didn’t feel dressed at all. At least it wasn’t terribly transparent.

The prince’s servant came back; the guard, somewhat relieved, disappeared behind the door.

“My name is Rescha, and I will be observing you today,” the liveried man mumbled as he pulled a length of rope out of his pocket. “Turn around, hands together.”

“Is this necessary?” she asked quietly.

“My role here tonight is to ensure the prince’s safety. Turn around.”

“No! I’m naked, unarmed, and with my bare hands—“

Before she could finish, Rescha threw her on the floor and forcefully tied her hands behind her back, paying no mind to her groans of pain. Then he leaned over her, pulled her head back, and hissed in her ear, “You’re just a plain whore. Heretics have no rights around here. You are to keep your mouth shut and behave like an obedient bitch when you’re with the prince, is that clear?”

She whimpered trying to nod. Rescha lifted her to her feet and patted the dust off her tunic, then took out a length of bandage.

“You must always remember the rules,” he said, wrapping it around her legs. “You mustn’t look the prince in the eye. You don’t speak unless spoken to, and if the prince graces you with his attention, you reply with ‘my lord’. You shall never touch the prince, though I suppose your hands will be tied back either way.”

Irri couldn’t very well imagine how one would have sex with somebody one can’t even touch, but the honourable prince probably just didn’t enjoy active girls.

“I, too, shall be in the chambers, and I shall watch you carefully. If you break any of the rules, I will make sure you regret it.”

She nodded in silence. She didn’t really care anymore—she was here only to spread her legs so that the honourable prince had somewhere to relieve his urges.

Rescha finally finished and pulled her to the door, and only then did she notice he had a wooden mace at his side. They walked down the long castle halls, passing several patrolling guards who cast small glances at her nearly naked body. One of them even whistled, which put an exceptionally obnoxious smirk on Rescha’s face, as though he was leading her to his own chambers and not to his prince’s at all. Irri glowered at the passing men. Surely everyone had already heard about the heretic who didn’t burn at the stake; about how she was to serve the prince with her body until the Master of Sould thought of another, more successful means of execution, just for her. She almost felt honoured.

They changed directions suddenly in a sharp turn and stopped in front of tall doors which wouldn’t be any different from all the others if not for the handle being slightly more elaborate and the fittings curled into small delicate patterns. Irri took a moment to admire the craftsmanship of whoever made them as Rescha reached for the snake-shaped knocker.

“Come in,” a deep voice answered, and the timbre of it made Irri’s heart skip a beat. It was an odd feeling, like a mix of fear, anxiety, and anticipation—like nothing she had ever felt before. But she had no time to try to make sense of it because Rescha pulled her into the chamber and bowed deeply.

A tall man stood by the huge, richly embellished table in the corner; his eyes focused on the parchment he held in his long, royal fingers, his hair so fair it was nearly white. Only after he finished reading did he turn to face them. Irri could feel herself drowning in his gaze, so extraordinarily blue she didn’t want to turn her eyes away. The prince sized her up with a long, thoughtful look, then turned to the servant.

“On your knees before the prince!” Rescha hissed, pushing her to the floor. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Lyeiess looking briefly upwards as he sighed.

“Is that her?” he only asked.

“Yes, my lord.” Rescha gave him another deep bow. Irri, with her eyes intently piercing the floor, barely caught the prince’s movement as he approached her; his gaze was burning a hole in the back of her neck. When she had walked into Iao, she knew that what she had been about to do would have probably had dire consequences—and now it was too late to go back. The prince lifted her face with two fingers and when she looked into his inhumanly blue eyes, suddenly she didn’t want to go anywhere else.

The bindings dug unpleasantly into her wrists and when Rescha pulled on her hair hissing something about the rules that had been set, her head, too, started to feel painfully heavy. Prince Lyeiess still tolerated his subordinate’s actions, but it was clear he was losing patience. Did he like her? Or did he just prefer his concubines unbruised?

“Have her stand up,” Lyeiess said, hoping the distaste he felt didn’t seep through into his words. He forced his face to be blank while the girl clambered to her feet, until he noticed the bandages on her calves. They were too dirty to do any good for whatever wounds were underneath, and definitely too tightly wound. If Raila saw this, she’d cry her eyes out. A question flashed through his mind, but he kept it to himself. He could barely understand the Arateite’s stance about heretics and Rescha’s eagerness to carry out the Master of Souls’ orders as best as he could, but he couldn’t wrap his head around the servant’s sudden need to simply bully this poor girl, who had probably never even seen a naked man yet, and already had enough courage to leave her home and preach a pagan faith on the main square of a foreign town. The word ‘venism’ seemed to ring a bell, but he couldn’t put his finger on it at all.

The girl stood before him with her head down and eyes closed, calm and patient even though she was nearly naked and surely terrified. Her hands were tied behind her back with a coarse rope, and she fumbled with them a little, trying to position them more comfortably. But Lyeiess couldn’t take his eyes off of the bandages. He could only imagine what the Priests of Souls did to her, but none of the arateistic tortures that he knew of—and those were abundant—left bloody marks so low. Except for one, but nobody ever lived through that.

He pulled her face up and her eyes immediately darted away. Not surprising; beating was usually quite successful at inducing submission. He regretted the thought before it was even finished.

“What is your name?” he asked.

She bit her lip, unsure if she should answer. Finally, her mouth opened and after a few seconds of silence said, “Irri.”

Rescha reacted automatically, hitting her hard between the shoulder blades. “What were you to say?!”

“My lord!” she wanted to add calmly, but her voice came out in a weak shriek. She didn’t even know how terrified she was.

Lyeiess gently pulled aside a lock of hair that had fallen on her face. It was light grey in colour and pleasantly soft to the touch. He tucked it behind her slightly pointed ear. She had long, heavy eyelashes, so fair they were nearly transparent and in no way obscured the freckles on her cheeks as she kept her eyes shut as if that would protect her from another blow.

“Look at me,” he said.

“But... my lord...” He could barely hear her voice. She made a move like she wanted to glance to the side, but was too afraid to open her eyes.

“Rescha? Don't worry about him.” He ignored the clenching fists at Rescha’s sides. In fact, he felt a tang of dastardly satisfaction at the sight. “You’re in my chambers, so you listen to me. Now open your eyes and look at me.”

Only then did she finally raise her gaze. Her eyes were a joyful, light shade of purple; they emanated with peace and something like ancient wisdom, even though she was still trembling in fear. Lyeiess moved a finger across her cheek, pondering on the nearly smooth skin and soft features. Regardless of her elvish race being obviously different from the darker-haired Oscara elves he had diplomatic relations with, as well as the ones who lived in Iao, he wouldn’t give her more than twenty years; and yet her face was already showing that particular kind of maturity that is brought only by long-lasting suffering and brutal disillusionment. Many of his subjects seemed to see him as a stern, even ruthless ruler, and he himself aimed to fuel those beliefs from time to time, but he really didn’t want anything to do with whatever tortured had been planned for this girl. He couldn’t even think of her in terms of a ‘heretic’ or ‘criminal’.

“How old are you?” he asked warmer than intended.

“Almost eighteen,” she whispered. “My lord,” she added quickly, glancing behind her. Lyeiess closed his eyes in resignation, but didn’t miss a small smirk struggling to bloom on Rescha’s face. The servant wasn’t that much older than the girl, and he was anready pushing her around like she was his slave. Lyeiess shook his head; he still remembered Rescha as the little boy his father haf pulled out of the deep water, and could scarcely believe how much he had changed ever since he began schooling at the Arateite’s temple.

“Untie her,” he commanded, walking towards a chair as he began fumbling with his shirt.

“With all due respect, my lord, I can’t,” Rescha replied.

Lyeiess turned to him, his expression still as stone, a black-dyed strap still half-tied. “Excuse me?” he growled, stepping closer. Rescha cowered slightly.

“His Mastery forbade it…” he said quietly. “To prevent her from any tricks, in care for your safety, my lord. She’s a witch, claims to summon the power of her false gods.” He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, as though the very words sullied his mouth.

“That’s a lie, I never—“ Before Irri could finish, Rescha slapped her cheek with such strength and accuracy she staggered. He raised his arm for another blow, one that would send her to the floor, but stopped at the strong grip on his wrist.

“Stop hitting her,” Lyeiess hissed, slowly but firmly setting his arm down. “I prefer my concubines unscarred and unbruised. Now untie her.”

Rescha fought to find words in his mouth for a minute. “...My lord, we are only concerned abour your safety.”

“I appreciate that,” Lyeiess replied dryly. “But somehow I doubt a small girl like this could do me any harm even if she wanted to, and it doesn’t seem like she does. She’s barely standing.”

Irri didn’t speak a word, her gaze nearly drilling through the floor. She’d already learnt all the lines of the little stones that built it, every crack and every scratch. She could paint the floor of this chamber from memory, so intently she stared at it.

Whatever happened, she couldn’t understand why the prince defended her so stubbornly. Wasn’t he supposed to be a stern-handed ruler? She didn’t see anything special in herself, either. She surely wasn’t his first concubine, and she probably wasn’t the last. When she’d wandered the streets of Iao, she’d heard more than enough rumours about Prince Lyeiess, especially stories about his weekly visits to the dungeons and the quarries in search of… company. Women that he chose warmed his bedding for a night or two and then disappeared without a trace, as if the ground had swallowed them… or if they had been fed to it. Irri didn’t doubt fr even a second that she would soon face the same fate, so the prince’s kidness, even if rooted in selfish reasons, was a mystery to her.

“I also doubt,” the prince continued, “that to use her powers, should any even exist, she would need her hands free. Do you, my dear Rescha, make some sort of special gestures when you commune with or summon upon Ath’Aratt? Do the gods truly require one to flail one’s arms around in a particular manner before the answer one’s prayers?”

 _Sometimes,_ Irri thought, but remained silent until the prince tilted his head and looked her straight in the eye, clearly demanding an answer, but even then she didn’t quite know what to say. It proved difficult to talk about her ‘heretic’ faith in the company of a devout arateite wielding a piece of raw and hard wood.

“Answer me,” Lyeiess said. “Do you pray dancing or flying?” His voice was underlined with a thin layer of devious sarcasm, but Irri felt it was directed at Rescha rather than her.

“I pray in silence, my lord,” she replied softly. “Vena knows our minds, sees into our thoughts.”

“See, dear Rescha?” Lyeiess stood straight again, his voice dripping venom. “One does not need one’s hands free to commune with the gods. One does, however, need them free to commune with _me_. Therefore, untie the girl.”

“Vena is not unwelcoming,” Irri continued in an empty voice, like she was reciting a formula, or like she wasn’t in there anymore. “Vena cares for her Chosen Ones. We live in a world built by Her Mother, in bodies created by Her Sister, in minds awoken by Her blood. Vena does not await permission. She hears through our ears. She sees through our eyes. She speak through our lips. She is us, and we from Her. She is Death and Moon, Mistress of Winter and Time, Lover of Fate and—“

“What a load of rubbish!” Rescha struck her again, though his hand was trembling. The force of the blow knocked her off her unsteady feet; Irri fell to her knees and nearly burst out crying. Lyeiess looked like the cat got his tongue as he stared at her with his eyes wide open. And she couldn’t quite remember what exactly had happened just a short while ago.

Rescha was towering over her, his face red as if she had told him his mother was a rabbit. The prince stood motionless a little further back, clearly thrown off-balance—but his surprise, shock even, was now slowly turning into anger.

“I told you to untie her,” he hissed through his teeth, gaze focusing on Rescha. “And if I have to tell you once more, I swear you’ll regret it.”

“His Mastery was very clear about this,” Rescha mumbled.

“Let me remind you that you aren’t in His Mastery’s office right now; you are in _my_ chambers. So obey _my_ order and stop… defying… me.” The prince stared at Rescha as he accentuated each word by undoing a buckle on his triple belt, and then very suggestively removed his sword and set it down nearby.

Rescha pulled the girl to her feet without a further word and untied the ropes that bound her, and then, at the wave of the prince’s hand, backed up to the wall.

“Wipe your tears.” Lyeiess gave Irri his embroidered kerchief and she, embarrassed, hid her face in it. There was more than a little to wipe, even though Irri still, by nothing but sheer force of will, kept herself from sobbing. She didn’t want to cry. The brothers and sisters, though smaller, didn’t cry: they bared their teeth and fought for themselves. Crying was as pathetic as it was pointless. So Irri gritted her teeth and swallowed her tears.

Lyeiess watched her with something like curiosity in his gaze. Her monologue from before, which she seemed to have recited mindlessly, and how she didn’t seem to have understood the blow Rescha treated her to, like it wasn’t her speaking at all… No. Lyeiess knew very well such things were beyond the realm of possibility. The gods, if they even existed, surely had better things to do than possessing young elven girls.

“Come,” he said softly, holding out his hand. When she reluctantly put her own in it, Lyeiess pulled her in strongly; the kerchief fell to the floor. He kissed her greedily, fingers wrapping around the back of her neck to keep her from moving away. He tasted the salty wetness on her lips—and she, defenceless, put her hands on his chest, almost like she wanted to push him away… but then her fists clenched on his open shirt.

Lyeiess’s hands pulled up her tunic, lips slipping down to her neck. Irri moaned quietly and dug her fingers into his shoulders, leaving what felt like blood-red marks in his skin. Rescha reached for his club but it took only one stare from above the girl’s shoulder to keep him in one place.

The girl clung to him, tense and terrified, as though she was hoping to find not only comfort in him, but protection as well. Lyeiess found it difficult to admit even to himself that he yearned to protect her for any reason other than a pure sense of aesthetics, but he couldn’t help but feel at least in some part responsible for her suffering. All those years ago, if he had just listened, thought it through, hadn’t agreed, had stopped Father from allowing the Arateite to put its roots down in Iao… Irri would be able to proclaim her faith here and nobody would be punishing her. _He_ wouldn’t be punishing her. Lyeiess was never particularly interested in what the Arateite did behind closed doors, but now that they’d pulled him into their religious war, it was like he could finally see clear. But he couldn’t go back—the decision was made for him this time, and surely, if he refused to carry out the girl’s ‘sentence’, more sophisticated tortures would await her in the Temple of Providence. He had made a mistake, one of so many he had made in his youth, and now the time had finally come to bear its consequences. He could wish she didn’t have to bear them for him, or he could try his best to atone. It was better this way.

He pulled away from Irri’s neck and picked her up, hands strongly grasping her thighs—she squealed in surprise, pressing herself up to him and wrapping her legs around his hips—and carried her to the bed. As he obscured them from Rescha’s alert gaze with the semi-transparent canopy, Irri stared at him wide-eyed, her breathing fast and shallow. On her back, hand at her lips and colour on her cheeks, with legs slightly bent to conceal what the short tunic revealed, she watched his hands like a cornered animal as he undid his shirt and slowly pulled it off his shoulders.

His chest finally bare, he leant over her, pulling her hand away from her lips to kiss them firmly; she clenched her fists on the bedding but obediently opened her mouth, giving herself up for him, even if with hesitation. With a feather-light touch, he ran his fingers up her thigh, then higher still, pulling off her tunic unhurriedly, reveling in her complacency: she clearly didn’t dare defy him. Or perhaps she didn’t want to?

She made no sound to stop him, not even a gesture, just laid there in silence, giving in to everything he did to her. Her breath was quick and her body trembled in fear at his every move—but the reactions of her body were genuine and just moments later he could feel her pushing her hips up to him ever so gently. He smiled, and she squeezed her thighs together even more, covering her face with her hands.

It was almost surreal, what he was doing to her. She knew it shouldn’t have been so enchanting, that she shouldn’t have let it feel good. Everybody—she, Prince Lyeiess, Rescha; even the common folk of Iao—were only puppets in this huge grotesque theatre. Every single one of them had a role to play. The prince’s was to punish her, make her into nothing but a cheap whore; and hers was to grovel and fawn and submit and weep. And Rescha’s was to make it all even worse and remind her of that damned failed execution with his sole presence here, and incite fright and pain. Irri was fully, irrationally certain that everything which was about to happen here would have broad, inescapable consequences.

But when she was laid down so, behind the loosely woven drapery, it was incredible easy to forget about it all and focus solely on the prince’s strong, rough hands wandering softly around her body. It was not unpleasant—Lyeiess must’ve had years of experience or perhaps an innate gentleness within his touch. And just like that, Irri, even though she _truly_ didn’t want to, couldn’t help but feel pleasure at the hands of a complete stranger.

Her head was filled with thought which weren’t hers; there was someone on the other side of the canopy who didn’t seem to be there at all; she had not a drop of trust or love for the man who was touching her—and yet she wouldn’t have changed anything in this moment. She wished not to stop him, beg him for mercy or reprieve. In fact, she wasn’t even sure if what was happening was indeed real, or just some sort of mad dream in which Prince Lyeiess was only a cruel illusion… Suddenly, she wanted— No, she _needed_ to touch him, just to make sure she had not lost her mind; but as she reached out, she remembered Rescha with the club at his side, and the pang of terror forced her hand arm back to her chest.

Lyeiess—of course—noticed that right away. She tensed up under his touch, to nobody’s surprise: he could not very well expect the girl to give herself up to him completely just because he wanted her to. And certainly not with that half-wit Rescha just waiting for the slightest slip-up. But there was nothing Lyeiess could do about that—the Master of Souls’ orders held a thousandfold more sway over Rescha than his words ever would.

If she was unable to relax enough, he had no choice but to bring her pleasure despite all the doubts and fears she still harboured. His hands, thus far wandering her body in futile attempts to ease her into his touch, stopped suddenly as though of their own volition. Lyeiess leant in again to taste her lips, his hand interlacing with hers—she let out a surprised moan, but it lost itself, soundlessly, in his mouth.

He pulled away eventually and she, still breathless, looked at him uneasily, as though she didn’t really know what to expect of him anymore. He smirked at the thought. He didn’t wait for her to figure it out; instead, he placed her hand on the back of his neck and slid down her body, peppering kisses down her collarbone and pushing her legs wide open. She arched her back, pushing her nipple into his mouth… and then he went even lower.

A quiet “oh, no” slipped out of Irri’s throat as he descended into her. He felt the edge of her hymen on his tongue so abruptly a shiver ran down his spine. That he did not expect. Even with all that he’d heard and knew of the Arateite, he found it hard to believe they would do this to her.

Irri’s hand clenched on Lyeiess’s hair, body writhing in pleasure as he found her sensitive spot. Her other hand dropped down to his shoulder, like she still couldn’t decide if maybe she didn’t want to push him away after all, but when Lyeiess slid a finger in and gave his tongue a different tast, even her fear or uncertainty couldn’t keep her from digging her nails into his skin.

“You’re scratching…” he hissed softly, pulling away only so slightly. She quickly composed herself—hands pulled back, wide eyes staring down at him in dread. And—something he had considered impossible until now—she blushed even more.

“I—“ she only whimpered, clearly scared despite the indulgent, almost proud smile plastered on his face. He pulled back up to kiss her lips and that terrified her even more.

It took no more but one look into her eyes for him to tell how ashamed she was of that one moment of oblivion, so he chose not to tell her there were many more to come yet. There was no reason to hurry. He let himself be drawn into the purple of her eyes as he weighed his options; he could still feel her sweet wetness on his fingers.

“Get up,” he whispered against her mouth as kissed her again, mustering up the most charming voice he possibly could. He imagined Rescha must have been beside himself with ire, and Lyeiess couldn’t help but smile at the thought. Somehow, in his head, this entire endeavour had transformed into a session of ‘101 Ways to Upset Rescha’, and though there was no pride in it, it was still very satisfying. And Lyeiess had the luxury of being able to blame the Master of Souls for it. Had he not attempted to command his reign—and his alcove now, too—and had he not stolen Rescha away from the castle with deceit and underhanded promises; and had he not told him to ‘accompany the prince’ under the pretense of ‘the prince’s safety’, Lyeiess would be able to do everything exactly as he pleased, and then maybe, just _maybe_ , he wouldn’t be feeling like such an abject bastard.

The girl stared at him in disbelief, frozen in place with naught but feeble protests on her lips; but when he repeated his request, more decidedly this time, she finally gave in. Kneeling, he could just about reach her breasts. Holding her worrisome gaze, he tore the tunic open unceremoniously, picking the scraps of the delicate tulle off of her body and pointedly dropping them to the floor. He could see the fear awakening anew in her eyes as she leant against the headboard under the pressure of his hands.

Irri had no clue what to think about any this anymore: about Iao, Rescha, the Arateite, but most of all about the prince. It seemed he was toying with her on purpose—one moment gentle and caring, and then suddenly commanding and tearing off her dubious garments—but her response was undeniable. She was, at the same time, terrified and excited; she wanted him to touch her and simultaneously—to have mercy and stop torturing her… but she had no intention of begging for either. All of a sudden, her mind buzzed with the echoes of Rescha’s voice repeating the rules over and over and somehow, she couldn’t get them to leave.

Lyeiess pulled her in closer, hands gripping her hips and tongue brushing against one nipple before circling the other; she could feel, frustratingly, the feather-like touch of his lips on her skin as they glided down her abdomen, and the trail they left in their wake burnt like raging fire. She shut her eyes and gasped fearfully, as if that would get that memory out of her head.

And then Lyeiess decisively set her thigh on his shoulder and every last thought was flung out of her mind at once. She hissed in pain as her mauled calf bumped against the firm muscles of his back; but before she could even squirm in protest, he was already pressing his tongue against her, lapping off the dripping juices. He had never tasted anything like this before—and though no words existed with which to describe it, the taste made his head spin in the best way possible. So he plunged headfirst into her again and again, emerging only when his mouth overflowed. For the longest while the girl looked like she truly wanted to push him away—he could see it in the erratic motions of her hands as she clearly wished to place on his shoulders but perhaps wasn’t sure if she should. And then he dipped back into her sweet depths and saw nothing more; merely heard her muffled moans as she pressed the back of her hand to her lips, felt her body shaking under spasms of pleasure. In the background, the patter of nervous steps being proof that Rescha could scarcely take it anymore. Lyeiess’s lips twisted into a smirk, pressed firmly against Irri’s lips.

Despite the success, Lyeiess soon felt dissatisfied—he wanted Irri breathless and writhing under the barrage of conflicting emotion; unable to stop her moans with nothing but her hand, and instead screaming in pleasure so strong a gag wouldn’t be enough to stop her. Pulling her closer by the hips, he squirmed his tongue into her as far as he could, sucking softly, pulsating her sweet spot into the roof of his mouth… and still, something was missing.

He gazed up at Irri leaning heavily against the headboard, small moans of pleasure slipping past her fingers pressed to her face and still doing nothing to cover the scarlet shame spread across her cheeks. He could feel something swelling inside him; and just as he started to seriously consider flipping her over that headboard and taking her the way the Master of Souls expected him to—the snake knocker sounded sharply against the door to his chambers.

“Yes?” he said a tad louder than intended, pulling the canopy aside to stand on the stone floor. A frail, freckle-faced boy slipped into his chamber, glancing around uncertainly. His gaze finally fell to Irri and stuck to her like an accidental curse, and the freckles on his cheeks immediately disappeared under a thick layer of red spreading down to his chest.

“What is it, Nad?” Lyeiess urged, making sure to work a note of leniency into his voice. The lad got himself together and slowly, reluctantly, turned his gaze to the floor, finally remembering to bow.

“My mistress sent me to remind you, my lord—the gem that was found... Your Royal Highness promised—”

“For the love of gods, don’t call me that,” Lyeiess interrupted with an impatient wave of his hand. Irri, confused and still breathless after what he had just done to her, watched the prince as he walked over to a cabinet standing in the farthest end of the chamber and took out a glistening, strangely shaped object out of the drawer. He then headed straight for the door, his expression stating clearly that his mind was already elsewhere.

“Sit down,” he muttered to her as he walked past. “This might take a while.”

Irri let herself rest against the pillows with some relief as the prince disappeared behind the door with Nad following close behind. If she listened closely, she could hear his voice drifting away.

A sudden noise jerked her head up. Rescha was standing over her with that wretched mace of his in hand—the canopy had been pulled aside all the way to the column. Irri pulled away, cowering as she tried, at the same time, to keep an eye on him and not look at his face; even the way he had been scolded by the prince like an impudent boy didn’t take away his skill at swinging his little torture device around.

She smiled at that thought despite the fear; and Rescha must’ve seen that silent mockery flash across her face, because he growled through gritted, bared teeth, low and throatily like a rabid dog. He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her down onto the cold floor, and Irri had to stifle a scream when she fell hard on her tortured knees. And then he beat her, his gaze absent and unfeeling at the mace thudding against her flesh again and again, and she couldn’t stifle anything anymore.

Rescha paid no mind to her cries and whimpers of pain, completely lost within his own. He was taking revenge not on this impudent whore alone; he was taking it on the prince as well, and, irrationally, on every single person in his life who believed themself to be better than him. He was just letting it all go, taking all the rage accumulated over the years out on this worthless wench. She should have died long ago anyway.

For a moment, he even thought of the prince seeing him like… But he warded that thought off, and then every other thought, and his world shrunk only to the screams, the despair, and the extraordinarily satisfying view of the girl writhing at his feet.

Irri, her head snuggled firmly beneath her arms, cowered up to the side of the bed—tighter and tighter, smaller and smaller, hopelessly trying to fit underneath and escape the blows that kept raining down on her mercilessly. Rescha didn’t ease up even for a moment—and she was truly afraid he was eventually going to break her arm if he didn’t stop battering her soon.

She didn’t really feel pain itself anymore: her body was all but numb, and every impact spread across her skin as a wave of painless but deep-penetrating shudders which made even her heart tremble. She wasn’t going to beg him to stop—she didn’t _want_ to ask him for mercy. But her body saw no other way and, completely against her will, she began to form her lips into a shaky apology.

She wasn’t quick enough. As soon as she lowered her arms a bit, Rescha slammed the side of her head with the mace; not even terribly hard, but enough to make her ears ring. She fell to the floor, her head filling up with a buzzing sound and only through a thick, vast fog she could hear the sound of the door opening.

Rescha suddenly disappeared from her field of vision. She touched her forehead gingerly, feeling the thick, viscous blood under her fingers. Slowly, screams made their way into her— No, someone was speaking in a raised— Rescha. Rescha, his voice just a little bit trembling, was shouting something in his defense. Irri slowly sat up, regardless of the awakening dizziness. First, she saw a blade at her torturer’s neck; then, following the edge, her eyes reached the prince. He didn’t even seem angry. His face was rather painted with something resembling a midpoint between disgust and relief, right next to a small patch of red on his cheeck which looked suspiciously like a mark a slap would leave.

Lyeiess was holding the sword in an incredibly careless way, as if he didn’t at all take into consideration the very real possibility it might slip from his hand and cleave Rescha from neck to groin. A moment later Irri realised that’s what the prince was probably counting on.

“I don’t care if the Master of Souls will be displeased,” the prince was saying, “and in this particular moment, neither should you. It’s _me_ who’s displeased at the moment, which should concern you far more, if not out of loyalty, then at least because of this awfully sharp blade I have to your throat.”

Irri, leaning against the bed, carefully listened to Lyeiess and personally believed that argument should have easily convinced anyone who had any sense of self-preservation. But Rescha apparently wasn’t one of the lot, because he didn’t even budge.

“And for that reason as well,” the prince continued, “you will now go to the Master of Souls and explain to him nicely that I am _done_ tolerating his caprices. If this is how he thinks business with the ruler should be run, he’s forcing me to forbid the Arateite from setting foot in the castle in the first place.”

Rescha gulped so loudly Irri heard it even over the incessant buzzing in her ears. A thin stream of blood ran down his neck, just like the few that were already running down Irri’s skin. Even though she really didn’t want to feel it, the sight brought her unbridled satisfaction.

“And if you don’t want to do that, dear Rescga, I shall give you a choice,” Lyeiess went on. “I can, for example, slit your throat wide open, watch you bleed out like a pig, and then call one of the guards to take your carcass away.”

Rescha turned visibly paler at the suggestion but didn’t lose heart, must to Lyeiess’s undisguised chagrin. “You can’t…” he stuttered out. “You wouldn’t dare…”

Lyeiess only raised his brow pointedly and Rescha immediately fell silent. Irri noticed a bead of sweat on his temple. He was sincerely afraid of the prince, and all of a sudden she couldn’t stop thinking there must have been a very good reason for that. Her opinion about Lyeiess had long left the conviction she had entertained before, about his pathetic desperation, and was now firmly wedged somewhere between ‘gentle and considerate’ and ‘attractively lordly’; however, yet again was she forced to wonder if her assessment was correct. And all because of how Rescha just couldn’t seem to stop shivering.

“My lord,” he added quickly with a far more appropriate humility. “My orders—”

“—are clear,” Lyeiess finished for him. “You are to go to the Master of Souls and relay to him what I just said. And if you’d prefer not to, then… of course… you don’t have to.” A disturbingly cold smile creeped up onto the prince’s lips as he spoke.

“My lord,” Rescha repeated, his hands outstretched beseechingly. He honestly seemed to believe Lyeiess would open his neck up with a flick of his wrist if he didn’t comply. “If… If you kill me, my lord, who will carry your message to His Mastery?”

“Oh, I’m sure he already knows about everything,” the prince replied with a disdainful wave of his free hand, but lowered his sword. “But very well. Go ahead. Run along to him, since you’re abruptly in such a hurry.”

Rescha stayed rooted into the floor only for another moment; he glanced at Irri, then back to Lyeiess again, wiped the blood from the nick on his neck and rubbed it between his fingers. And then, finally, he lowered his gaze, quickly slipped past the prince, and disappeared behind the door without so much as a second to close them properly behind.

Lyeiess sighed, sliding the sword back into its scabbard. Irri lost sight of him but she could hear his soft steps. She hid her face in her hands again as she realised that the prince, having gone around the bed slowly, was now coming back towards her. She didn’t want to admit it, but Rescha’s fear infected her, too. Though not her fault entirely, she brought Lyeiess more grief over the last hour than he probably usually had in a whole day. She couldn’t really tell, not with absolute certainty, that he _wouldn’t_ choose to consider her role vital in the whole farce, and decide to punish her for complicity—after all, she didn’t know him in the slightest, no matter how much she tried to convince herself of it when his hands caressed her body and his tongue reached places she had thought unreachable before.

But the prince didn’t grab her by the hair, didn’t yell at her or hit her. He crouched down next to cher and stayed quiet for a long while, just looking at her—her eyes were closed but she could feel his gaze on her. Finally, she dared open them. Lyeiess was holding a mortar in which he was lazily grinding a mix of herbs into a paste. He wasn’t even looking at her face; his gaze was rather focused on her bleeding ear and the cut on her side which she had now only discovered herself. There were several charpies prepared neatly on the bed.

“My lord…” she said but the prince stopped her with a wave of his hand. He didn’t say anything, focused on his work. She didn’t dare speak again.

When he was done, Lyeiess softly and with incredible tenderness began putting the paste on her wound. It was cool and moist, but soon it gave off a pleasant warmth-like feeling that spread across her skin.

“What is that?” she asked, trying to twist her head to determine even only the colour of the poultice, but Lyeiess’s hand was in the way.

“Plantain leaves and marigold flowers mashed together with pine sap syrup,” Lyeiess replied calmly, still focused on her wound. She closed her eyes, giving in to his touch.

After putting the poultice on, Lyeiess covered the wound with a piece of clean gauze and secured it with a bandage; Irri twitched when his arms wrapped around her. Lyeiess gave no indication he had noticed that, but she knew he had.

He then made sure eveything was in place, washed her ear with something that smelled like chamomile extract and checked all of the other small cuts and bruises she had on her, then finally stepped out of her sight once more. She heard him open and close a cabinet—then a liquid flowed, the prince drank, and again, and again still… A goblet hit against a wooden tabletop. Irri still wouldn’t raise her head, staring at her intertwined hands, but she could barely stand the silence anymore. She couldn’t push away the one persistent thought that Lyeiess was angry with her—even if she didn’t rightly know what she did to deserve it. She never wanted to cause him trouble. At first, she didn’t even want to be here, and then… his touch… She rubbed her hands against her thighs. She could still feel it even after all that time… She still wanted him. But now it was too late.

But before she managed to gather her strength to propose it might be better if he just sent her back to the Master of Souls, the prince let out a long sigh strangely close to her. She raised her gaze: Lyeiess was leaning against the headboard, his head hanging low, shoulders tense. He noticed her looking—their eyes met for a split second, then hers went back to her lap; but even that fraction was more than enough.

“How are you feeling?” the prince asked, and his voice was empty again. He turned away from her and went over to the table to pour himself another serving of wine, and when she dared look up once more, she only saw his bare, broad back. She didn’t reply. Up till now, she hadn’t really contemplated how she was feeling. Actually, in the meantime, she had forgotten she was injured at all. Nothing pained her anymore, the buzzing in her head had quieted down so much she barely noticed it, and if she were to complain about anything, it would only be about the bandage chafing slightly under her breast.

“Good,” she finally replied, so quietly she was afraid he didn’t hear her. Somehow, she couldn’t force herself to speak louder. “I didn’t expect…” she stuttered after a moment, cursing herself in her mind. All of the charisma she was downright dripping with when she spoke of Venism to the common folk, her charm and conviction, all of it was gone in the blink of an eye if she even remembered those unimaginably blue eyes. “…you to know herbal medicine or—“

“There is much you don’t know about me,” Lyeiess cut her off with an impatient wave of his hand.

“My lord…” She took a deeper breath. “If I wronged you somehow… If you’re mad at—“

“I’m not mad.” Lyeiess drank the rest of his wine and set the goblet aside. “I’m tired.”

Irri didn’t understand, but she stayed silent, feeling the prince wasn’t finished yet. She had no clue why he would wish to confide in her of all people and now of all times. In his eyes she was probably still just a heretic whore he was supposed to punish. Although, maybe those are the easiest to confide in.

“I’m tired,” Lyeiess repeated. “I’ve had enough of that man, I’ve had enough of his fucking religion. I’ve had enough of twelve-year-old mistakes spitting in my face at every turn.”

He leaned heavily on the table, seriously wondering if knocking everything off it to the floor wouldn’t perhaps make him feel better. He finally decided it probably wouldn’t and turned away. The girl was still sitting on the hard stone paving in the same position which could under no circumstance be even remotely comfortable. As soon as he looked her way, she lowered her gaze. He sighed.

“I have way too much on my plate,” he added almost apologetically. “And nobody to help me. The countryside’s addled with drought, and we can’t even tell why. The trade caravans are being destroyed, the tracts barely function, and without them, we will all likely starve to death. My court magus is a cunt, Rails is in over her head, and the Master of Souls, who has both the means and the skills to help is wasting them on pointless religious wars. And now, on top of all that, I also have to figure out what to do with you.”

As he said that, he sat heavily on the bed and watched her expression change fro a slightly confused dejection to a mixture of honest shock and fledgeling hope.

“You aren’t going to send me back to the Temple of Providence?” she asked in a quivering whisper.

“I don’t know yet,” he replied softly. “What did they do to you there?”

Her gaze jumped aside; she bit her lip, blinked a few times to shake away the tears, then gave a shallow, shaky sigh before she answered.

“Not very much at all, my lord,” she began so quietly Lyeiess had to lean closer with his elbows on his knees to hear her. “They kicked me about a bit when they were leading me there; and then they threw me in a cell where I spent two days before the Master of Souls finally took interest in me.”

“They were starving you out.” Lyeiess let out an irritated sigh at the neglectful treatment, but said nothing.

“And when he finally came, he had me brought out immediately, fed, allowed to wash and change… They sat me at the table with him. Perhaps he wanted to gain my trust, but I really haven’t the faintest idea why: as soon as he heard the account of the priest who had captured me, he proclaimed me a heretic and a witch, and ordered a ceremony of cleansing…”

“Yes, I know,” Lyeiess interrupted, seeing tears in her eyes. He swallowed back the bitter bile that came up to his throat at the very thought. “I know what it looks like. What then? What happened after the cleansing?”

“They wanted to burn me at the stake,” she whispered. “But they failed.”

“Yes,” the prince muttered, “and here you’re going to have to elaborate.”

A faint smile graced her face at his remark, but she felt in no way cheerful. “I don’t fairly know myself how it happened,” she said. “I was barely conscious for the pain—“ She squeezed her eyes shut at the very memory, her heart fluttering in her chest, and she had to gulp back her tears before she could continue. “But I do remember a gale picked up suddenly, rain fell… A veritable storm broke out, dousing the flames until they dwindled down. I don’t think the Arateit priests knew what was going on any better than I did. Then I fell into darkness and woke up back In my cell. I would have thought it was all a dream if not for the burns on my legs. But before I could ask anybody what had actually happened, this… Rescha came and brought me straight here. On the way, I thought I heard somebody say the Master of Soulds gad been injured in the storm, but perhaps I just imagined it… I’m not so sure of anything anymore.” She rubbed her temples as if that was going to stop the dull pain and the buzzing.

Lyeiess remained silent for the longest while, seemingly processing her words. Irri wondered what could be happening in his head. He looked like a man whose beliefs were falling apart. “You think your gods were responsible for that?” he asked hesitantly. He was in no way convinced, but he did see that absurdly localised storm with his own two eyes from the castle windows and heard the servants whisper it was a god’s or gods’ wrath, depending on their own denominations.

“Undoubtedly,” Irri treplied with the kind of confidence only faith can give. Lyeiess sighed. Even if he believed in gods after this, it wouldn’t have mattered. Unless the gods would be willing to magnanimously save Iao from its imminent doom. But none of the gods he’d ever heard of did any such thing selflessly, and Lyeiess couldn’t afford to pay a divine debt. “Then…” Irri spoke timidly, having received no answer. When he looked at her, she seemed only interested in wringing her hands out. “What will happen to me now?” she asked softly.

He didn’t give his verdict right away. He stared at the floor, weighing all the options. He couldn’t send her back to the Master of Souls, that much was clear; but he also didn’t have many good reasons to keep her in the castle. He didn’t really feel like explaining to the not-so-much-a-minority of Iaoian Arateits why he decided to acquit the one they believed to be a heretic of her crimes and give her a new life. He rubbed his face, exhausted.

He looked again at the girl who now, distressed by his silence, stared at him fearfully with those purple eyes. He couldn’t do that to her. He should lock her in an empty chamber, put her under guard, have her sit there safely until he’d have made a decision. He could send a message to the Master of Souls and maybe reach an agreement that would have every Iaoian happy. Under no circumstance should he now kiss her or…

He leant in and kissed her. The fireplace was dying down and now the chamber was only lit by one flickering candle and the dim gleam of the embers, but even in semi-darkness Lyeiess could see the newly awoken blush on Irri’s face when he traced the lines of her body with his tongue.

“My lord…” she muttered softly, but he just kept going lower until he finally put his arms under her legs. She gasped in surprise as he grabbed onto her waist and pulled her up, pressing himself to her outspread legs. She wrapped them around his shoulders even though she new she didn’t have to; she was perfectly safe in his embrace.

Still so curled up, she was so gently placed upon the bedding her head didn’t hit the pillows even with the smallest of impacts. Irri felt like she was floating off of a cloud—a very strong and horribly handsome cloud.

“My lord,” she repeated softly and this time her voice sounded a bit more urgent, so Lyeiess stopped tasting her neck and looked at her with a question in his eyes.

“Do you wish me to stop?” he whispered, and his hot breath blew over her face. It smelled of roses, as if Lyeiess chewed flower petals in his free time when he wasn’t unmaindening young heretics or threatening his servants with death. For a split second, she looked at him in surprise, finding it hard to believe that he would even be willing to leave her be—but then she closed her mouth and shook her head, embarrassed. He didn’t seem convinced, though; she noticed a motion like he was about to pull away, and it filled her with such sudden panic, she clenched her fingers on his shoulders to keep him in place. Even though she was stark naked, exposed, and bent in half underneath him, all she wanted was for him to go on.

“No…” she began, but her words turned into a soft moan when Lyeiess kissed into her neck again, running his tongue down her throat and tracing the lines of her collar bones. Then he perched up on his elbows again to look her in the eye. Her hips happily welcomed the change of position, but Irri didn’t much care for their relief. Her cheeks were burning as Lyeiess glanced at her with a mixture of confidence and something like… concern? She could feel herself melting under that gaze, and soon the prince felt it, too. He reached down with his fingers, and in a strange rush of panic Irri closed her thighs on his shoulders, her first instinct being to escape his touch. He stopped, rubbing her wetness between his lordly fingertips.

“Irri,” he whispered her name, low and a bit purring, and that was enough to make her muscles give out. “If you don’t want this, don’t be afraid to say so. I don’t wish to force you or bring you harm.”

She could feel the little stabs of tears under her eyelids, harboring a deep conviction that if he wouldn’t stop being such a tender bastard, she really would be forced to cry her eyes out on the spot. “I’m but a bit scared,” she replied softly. “You shouldn’t worry yourself with that, my lord.”

“Of course I should,” he said, his gaze gliding slowly around her body. His hand, still so brutally unmoving, was resting on her mound, and Irri was just barely stopping herself from pushing her hips up to him to make it go lower. And then she only thought about what was about to happen, about being torn open, and a shiver ran through her again.

“If you want me to stop, I shall stop,” Lyeiess assured again, noticing her discomfort. “If something hurts or will hurt, utter a word and I shall stop.”

“No,” she said more assuredly. “No. My lord… I want…” She took a breath to calm her trembling throat. “Even if I were to groan in pain and try to push you away, I don’t want you to stop. I want you to open me.”

Lyeiess stared at her with nothing but shock in his eyes, as if he didn’t expect such an answer; but still, he didn’t make a move or utter a word.

“My lord, please…” she almost begged, pushing her hips up to him. “I trust you.”

The prince shrugged very un-tenderly and immediately slid lower with his hand; and when he found her weak spot and rubbed around it, a sweet moan that escaped Irri’s lips was like balm for his ears. Lyeiess smiled to himself, dribbled saliva onto his fingers, and then slowly pushed one inside. Irri herself didn’t expect to be so filled, but for a moment it even hurt. She groaned, though she really tried not to.

“Shh…” he murmured straight into her ear, sending a shiver down her neck. She pushed her hips up and he went deeper, and then gently rubbed his fingertip against her front wall. She had not known the sensation before, like pure ecstasy swirling inside her and taking over with undeniable weakness. She’d never done such a thing to herself and now she was deeply regretting it.

“Ah!” escaped her lips and, embarrassed, she hid her face in her hands. Lyeiess, however, grabbed her wrist and pulled them away, though he didn’t say a word to go along with it and Irri suddenly felt strangely alien. He didn’t care about her at all. Everything she’d heard about him must have been true—about the prince only thinking of himself and paying no mind to the feelings of others. A fear that dimmed even the sensations coming from his touch washed over her. What if she’d end up like his previous courtesans? Fall off the face of the earth, no one ever knowing what happened?

But then he put a second finger in her, moving his hand with rising speed, and his lips traced her neck and breast, and all that reflected in the waves of pleasure rolling across her skin; and suddenly Irri didn’t care what the prince was going to do to her after, as long as he got to doing what he was about to do to her now. She writhed underneath him as her hands roamed his shoulders, and when he slid even lower and she felt his lips pressed firmly to hers, she gasped for air and nearly broke his nose with her hips. She could even feel him smiling.

While Lyeiess was very cautious with his hands so as not to inadvertently hurt the girl, when his lips came into play, he lost all reservations. So he paid no mind to her increasingly louder and more desperate cries and moans, and focused solely on her almost intoxicating fragrance and equally addictive taste. His tongue explored every nook and cranny, tried to reach as far as possible inside, and then Lyeiess would gently kiss down her thighs, giving her a moment of respite only to start suckling on her bud and tear another cry of pleasure from her throat. He tormented her so for several long minutes before finally taking mercy on her voice and breath and pulling away. She opened the eyes which she could not remember closing, and saw him above her—he stared at her with a smug smile on his handsome face. Their gazes met and intertwined; she let herself get lost in the deep blue again, even though she knew she should have resisted him a long time ago. She didn’t know either, and he leant in to kiss her hungrily, passionately, messily, deeply. She reached up to him and when their lips clashed, she hoped they would never come apart again. She could scarcely believe the hold this man had on her already.

Then suddenly his fingers, which have been caressing and gently opening her till now, disappeared. Somehow her eyes were closed again, and between that and his lips kissing down her throat, she was left to surmise what was happening. She could hear Lyeiess’s steady, not even a little quickened breath, and it helped her stay calm; she could imagine that if she were to be hearing heavy, impatient, aroused panting, her stress would likely be reaching its peak right about now. More so since she still wasn’t entirely certain if she wanted to go through with this, still felt a cold shiver at the very thought of the pain, of being filled, of—gods forbid—being pregnant by this foreign prince who’d use her today and tomorrow, if she was lucky, throw her out the gates and leave her somewhere on the tract. But she told him to do it no matter what and she knew there was no going back now.

Still, nothing was happening, so she opened her tearful eyes and saw the prince gazing at her a tad too carefully. He looked almost… worried.

“Is everything all right?” he asked for the second time that night. Irri looked at him blankly, so he added, “You’re crying. And bleeding.”

He didn’t seem overly alarmed, his voice level as if he was merely stating a fact, and so the full weight of his words only reached her after a moment. Still in the state of slight shock, she wiped the tears from her face, but before she could feel between her legs, Lyeiess raised his hand. His fair skin was clearly marred with deep red that looked suspiciously like moon blood. Except Irri could easily remember she had her moon all but a week ago.

“My lord… I…” she fumbled with her words, unable to look him in the eye. “If you wish to send me away I—”

“Cut it out.” He waved his bloody hand dismissively. “It’s only that I expected blood _after_ I actually did something, not beforehand.”

She blushed even harder, biting her lip as her sole reply.

“Because you do want me to continue?” he asked more than stated. For a second, she didn’t know what to say. Frankly, she was afraid; that it would hurt more this way, that something would go wrong, perhaps even that it would be somehow more dangerous… And then an otherworldly feeling of peace washed over her, as if all her fears and doubts didn’t matter and everything was perfectly well. She smiled at Her presence.

“Yes, my lord,” she replied. “It’s all right. Please don’t stop.”

Lyeiess shrugged again, just as un-tenderly as before, and traced kissed down her neck again to—as Irri very well knew—make up for their conversation. But she didn’t want to wait anymore. She reached towards his breeches and drew some unexpected, but strangely joyful satisfaction from the surprise that awoke on his face turning into obvious delight when she wrapped her fingers around him, nestling him in her palm. His reaction filled her with confidence; she wouldn’t have expected the prince to be so sensitive. Or maybe he just knew how to draw pleasure even from the most shy of caresses.

But Lyeiess understood her message and when she finally fumbled his breeches open without looking, he did the rest himself. He pulled her hips into his lap, placing himself at her entrance. Her lips parted in quickened, anticipating breaths as her other lips parted for him, and she trembled with what she could only describe as a mixture of fear, impatience, and lust. Still, she didn’t say a word to stop him. Despite the blood covering likely half of her thighs by now, Lyeiess spread some saliva on her, and then—finally—began his slow entry into her insides. He gazed into her eyes and Irri wanted to respond in kind but her resolution faltered when she actually _felt_ it. The same sensation of being spread open which she had barely noticed at first, quickly hit in force, then turned into pangs of sharp, piercing pain. She groaned. Lyeiess kept pushing forward, seemingly paying her no mind if not for the hand he placed on her cheek to settle her down. He knew. He was there. Irri in turn clenched her fingers on his shoulders; the pain was downright overwhelming, weakening, _oppressive_ … Perhaps because it was also so unexpected.

Then there was an even sharper stab of pain and Lyeiess suddenly stopped pushing. He didn’t say anything, just gave her a minute to get used to his presence inside. She breathed deeply in and out, the pain slowly fading, but its memory still remained, nearly paralysing her. She clung to the prince as she tried to calm down, and he wrapped his free arm around her. After a long, very long while filled only with their synchronised breaths and gentle kisses he placed on her body, Lyeiess began moving again. It didn’t hurt quite as much anymore but it wasn’t entirely comfortable either. There was some scraping in places she was fairly certain there shouldn’t have been any scraping, and the prince must’ve felt it as well because he stopped abruptly and backed out, and when he returned inside, it was all gone. The pain had almost faded, too, and this time, when Lyeiess quickened his pace, a blissful sigh escaped Irri’s lips. She could see a smile awakening on the prince’s face from behind her eyelashes.

Soon, her sighs turned to moans and little cries she let out straight in his ear, pressed hard against his chest, her arms wrapped around his shoulders. Lyeiess thrust into her in a well-established rhythm, going faster and slowing down until it was as though they were undulating in the tousled bedding. Slowly, she would cease to feel his movements, and rather melted into him, perceived him with every sense, over all of her body and from everywhere at once. Her mind was simultaneously shutting down and amplifying everything twofold.

“Oh, fuck…” his unrestrained whisper rang in her ears like a bell just before his moves sharpened, desperately chasing for completion. He was culminating, about to fill her with his seed, but this prospect somehow only excited her more. Her fingers curled all on their own, nails digging into his back as he thrust into her harder and harder, as far as he could go, ripping screams of equal pain and pleasure from her lips. Lyeiess only gave a low, throaty growl, ramming into her in one final push as if he was trying to force himself impossibly deep inside… until, finally, he relaxed, breath hitching, and let his weight rest upon her. She was warm and cosy underneath him, nestled so into his hot body. She listened to his heavy panting, felt his hurried heart thumping against her chest.

They stayed like that, unmoving, for the longest while until Lyeiess slid off of her and onto the pillows beside with a sigh that quickly turned into a hiss of pain. “Ohh, you scratched the soul out of me,” he murmured, feeling around his back as Irri cowered slightly, uncertain. He glanced at her, drawing her close in one swift movement until she was settled against his bare chest.

“My lord…” she mumbled again, trying to pull away, although not with much verve.

“Don’t trouble yourself,” he replied, putting an end to any discussion, arm wrapping around her tighter. Her gaze wandered around the chamber, searching for something to stick to that wouldn’t be any part of the prince’s physique; and suddenly fell upon his sword, still set against the bed.

The scabbard, except being hung on a triple belt, was mostly simple. Its only decoration was the beautifully engraved steel locket around its edge, shaped to snugly fit the cross- and rain-guard, and similarly etched chape on the bottom to keep the leather from scraping off against the ground. The grip itself was black, and the pommel composed of a profiled silver sphere which drew her in the most.

Mesmerised, she reached out over Lyeiess’s chest, hesitantly at first in case he didn’t wish for her to touch his weapon. The prince watched her curiously but did nothing to stop her. She raised the sword with a stiff arm, shocked over how light it was—until she realised Lyeiess was helping her with his other hand. She threw him a look, urging him silently to let it go, and as soon as he did, she had to sit up to heave the sword onto the bed. The prince smiled leniently, watching her with mild amusement.

She could now see the pommel was wrought in the fashion of a moon, but not an ordinary moon: every crater and every depression was faithfully recreated and engraved, in the most delicate, almost ephemeral manner, with a small runic letter; Irri instantly recognised the same marks she’d known since she was a child. Gasping in surprise, she tried to unsheathe the blade, but the locket held it safely in the scabbard. Lyeiess helped her again, this time gently but decisively turning the blade to release it before handing it back to her. She pulled it out slowly, inch by inch revealing the similar runes on its fuller, forming…

“My lord,” she said suddenly, “do you realise what you have?”

Raila dismissed his question with a shrug more dismissive than ever before. He was downright impressed.

“Make her your permanent courtesan,” she said brusquely, not taking her eyes off of her patient even for a split second. The gnome on her table groaned softly as she cut into his abdomen, and she nodded at her assistant, the little girl named Alia, to bring more laudanum. Lyeiess watched it, opening his mouth to say something about her proposal, but she raised her hand despite still not having so much as glanced at him. “Don’t even think of protesting, it’s the only way. You’ll tell the Arateites that since the witch cannot be killed, then by your decree she will forever and ever suffer the torture of being nothing more than a body. And the girl will like it… sooner or later.”

The prince spread his arms helplessly, shaking his head. “I’m not going to use her like that,” he replied. “I don’t even know if I _could_.”

“You had no trouble with that last night,” Raila raised a brow. “Nor any of the times before, when you dragged prisoners up from the quarries. You never thought they might not want it?”

“Of course I did!” He gave an indignant scoff. “Each one of them had a choice and none ever refused. Besides, the quarries, as you admit yourself, are no place for a woman, so maybe don’t now act like I’m doing something wrong when I help them out. And last night, Irri wanted it, but that doesn’t mean she will want to spend the rest of her life that way.”

“Then you’ll put her in the kitchens when you get bored with her. Or send her quietly away to the other side of Noellye where you’ll buy her a nice little white house in Lyewor with a beautiful view of Daur Sea. Really, Lye, do you _have_ to seek out problems where there aren’t any?” Lyeiess didn’t have an answer to that and Raila didn’t seem to be waiting for one. “For gods’ sakes, people come to me with sun strokes. In _groups_ , Lye. In groups! At this very moment, I’m patching up the caravaner who was supposed to bring us food, and instead brought only more ba— Oh, fuck. Alia! Forceps!”

The girl came running with the instrument, passing it through the cleansing flame on the way. Raila immediately put it into the gnome’s abdomen, sending a stream of blood squirting Lyeiess’s way which he only dodged by a mere inch.

“…more bad news,” Lady Surgery continued, “and he’s going to bleed out on me here if you don’t stop getting on my nerves. It’s maddening. Our little piece of the world in this beautiful Naldenian delta is crashing and burning while you worry about the feelings of some Elven lass whose name I can’t even remember.”

“Irri,” Lyeiess repeated, thought he knew it was hopeless.

“Oh, my dear prince,” Raila breathed with a hint of anguish in her voice. “It’s wonderful that you have a kind heart, but you are terribly unfit to rule.”

Lyeiess sighed. He knew she was right, but such was his plight. “I would gladly give you my throne, milady, but I’m afraid I care about the well-being of my people.”

Raila laughed boisterously at the prospect, almost as if she wasn’t elbow-deep in her patient, cutting out something that, to Lyeiess’s layman eye, seemed to be quite important.

“Still, I’m more concerned that this whole mess with heresies is going to start a war with the Arateite.” Lyeiess jumped off of his place on the medication cabinet and paced impatiently around the part of the floor that wasn’t splattered with any bodily fluids.

“Let it start it then, but quick,” the woman replied. “It’ll only do us good. With some luck, a little bloodshed will temper the wild urges of their priestling, and if half of our populace gets slaughtered, maybe we won’t all starve to death later.”

“I love you, Raila,” Lyeiess only said, his hand already on the door handle.

“I love you too, my prince,” she replied, smiling at him from above the brown organ dripping blood on her feet. “Now get the hell out of my hospital.”


End file.
